Paper Money by Ken Follett Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ken Follett
read . . .”
“. . . any cars Lee area free to assist Fire Brigade at twenty-two Feather Street . . .”
Herbert made another note.
“. . . Eighteen, do you read . . .”
“. . . I don’t know, give her an aspirin . . .”
“. . . assault with a knife, not serious . . .”
“. . . where the hell have you been, Eighteen . . .”
Herbert’s attention strayed to the photograph on the mantelpiece above the boarded-in fireplace. The picture was flattering: Herbert had known this, twenty years ago, when she had given it to him; but now he had forgotten. Oddly, he did not think of her as she really had been, anymore. When he remembered her he visualized a woman with flawless skin and hand-tinted cheeks, posing before a faded panorama in a photographer’s studio.
“. . . theft of one color television and damage to a plate-glass window . . .”
He had been the first among his circle of friends to “lose the wife,” as they would put it. Two or three of them had suffered the tragedy since: one had become a cheerful drunkard, another had married a widow. Herbert had buried his head in his hobby, radio. He began listening to police broadcasts during the day when he did not feel well enough to go to work, which was quite often.
“. . . Grey Avenue, Golders Green, reported assault . . .”
One day, after hearing the police talk about a bank raid, he had telephoned the Evening Post. A reporter had thanked him for the information and taken his name and address. The raid had been a big one—a quarter of a million pounds—and the story was on the front page of the Post that evening. Herbert had been proud to have given them the tip-off, and told the story in three pubs that night. Then he forgot about it. Three months later he got a check for fifty pounds from the newspaper. With the check was a statement which read: “Two shot in £250,000 raid” and gave the date of the robbery.
“. . . leave it out, Charlie, if she won’t make a complaint, forget it . . .”
The following day Herbert had stayed at home and phoned the Post every time he picked something up on the police wavelength. That afternoon he got a call from a man who said he was deputy news editor, who explained just what the paper wanted from people like Herbert. He was told not to report an assault unless a gun was used or someone was killed; not to bother with burglaries unless the address was in Belgravia, Chelsea, or Kensington; not to report robberies except when weapons were used or very large amounts of cash stolen.
“. . . proceed to twenty-three, Narrow Road, and wait . . .”
He got the idea quickly, because he was not stupid, and the Post ’s news values were far from subtle. Soon he realized he was earning slightly more on his “sick” days than when he went to work. What was more, he preferred listening to the radio to making boxes for cameras. So he gave in his notice, and became what the newspaper called an earwig.
“. . . better give me that description now . . .”
After he had been working full-time on the radio for a few weeks the deputy news editor came to his house—it was before he moved to the studio apartment—to talk to him. The newspaperman said Herbert’s work was very useful to the paper, and how would he like to work for them exclusively? That would mean Herbert would phone tips only to the Post , and not to other papers. But he would get a weekly retainer to make up for the loss of income. Herbert did not say that he never had phoned any other papers. He accepted the offer graciously.
“. . . sit tight and we’ll get you some assistance, in a few minutes . . .”
Over the years he had improved both his equipment and his understanding of what the newspaper wanted. He learned that they were grateful for more or less anything early in the morning, but as the day wore on they became more choosy, until by about three p.m. nothing less than murder in the street or large-scale robbery with violence interested
“. . . any cars Lee area free to assist Fire Brigade at twenty-two Feather Street . . .”
Herbert made another note.
“. . . Eighteen, do you read . . .”
“. . . I don’t know, give her an aspirin . . .”
“. . . assault with a knife, not serious . . .”
“. . . where the hell have you been, Eighteen . . .”
Herbert’s attention strayed to the photograph on the mantelpiece above the boarded-in fireplace. The picture was flattering: Herbert had known this, twenty years ago, when she had given it to him; but now he had forgotten. Oddly, he did not think of her as she really had been, anymore. When he remembered her he visualized a woman with flawless skin and hand-tinted cheeks, posing before a faded panorama in a photographer’s studio.
“. . . theft of one color television and damage to a plate-glass window . . .”
He had been the first among his circle of friends to “lose the wife,” as they would put it. Two or three of them had suffered the tragedy since: one had become a cheerful drunkard, another had married a widow. Herbert had buried his head in his hobby, radio. He began listening to police broadcasts during the day when he did not feel well enough to go to work, which was quite often.
“. . . Grey Avenue, Golders Green, reported assault . . .”
One day, after hearing the police talk about a bank raid, he had telephoned the Evening Post. A reporter had thanked him for the information and taken his name and address. The raid had been a big one—a quarter of a million pounds—and the story was on the front page of the Post that evening. Herbert had been proud to have given them the tip-off, and told the story in three pubs that night. Then he forgot about it. Three months later he got a check for fifty pounds from the newspaper. With the check was a statement which read: “Two shot in £250,000 raid” and gave the date of the robbery.
“. . . leave it out, Charlie, if she won’t make a complaint, forget it . . .”
The following day Herbert had stayed at home and phoned the Post every time he picked something up on the police wavelength. That afternoon he got a call from a man who said he was deputy news editor, who explained just what the paper wanted from people like Herbert. He was told not to report an assault unless a gun was used or someone was killed; not to bother with burglaries unless the address was in Belgravia, Chelsea, or Kensington; not to report robberies except when weapons were used or very large amounts of cash stolen.
“. . . proceed to twenty-three, Narrow Road, and wait . . .”
He got the idea quickly, because he was not stupid, and the Post ’s news values were far from subtle. Soon he realized he was earning slightly more on his “sick” days than when he went to work. What was more, he preferred listening to the radio to making boxes for cameras. So he gave in his notice, and became what the newspaper called an earwig.
“. . . better give me that description now . . .”
After he had been working full-time on the radio for a few weeks the deputy news editor came to his house—it was before he moved to the studio apartment—to talk to him. The newspaperman said Herbert’s work was very useful to the paper, and how would he like to work for them exclusively? That would mean Herbert would phone tips only to the Post , and not to other papers. But he would get a weekly retainer to make up for the loss of income. Herbert did not say that he never had phoned any other papers. He accepted the offer graciously.
“. . . sit tight and we’ll get you some assistance, in a few minutes . . .”
Over the years he had improved both his equipment and his understanding of what the newspaper wanted. He learned that they were grateful for more or less anything early in the morning, but as the day wore on they became more choosy, until by about three p.m. nothing less than murder in the street or large-scale robbery with violence interested